Wounded Hearts
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story #45 Romar Prison Colony has its own set of rules. While Spock adjusts to his new environment, his family attempts to stop Kirk's self-destructive behavior.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Weighed down by a load of groceries, Lauren Fielding struggled to reach the chime button beside Kirk's apartment door. She felt her purse slipping from her shoulder, but there was no way to stop it. The purse hit the hall floor with a thud; then a grocery bag slipped, spilling tomatoes and Rigelian peppers all over the elegant red carpet.

Annoyed, Lauren jabbed at the chime again…and waited. No one came. The remaining bag of groceries was getting heavy. Once more she hit the button, and then rapped on the door with her knuckles.

 _Why wasn't he answering?_ Several unpleasant possibilities came to mind, fueling the worry that had been nagging at her all afternoon. _What if he was sick? What if he had fallen out of his wheelchair and hurt himself? What if—?_

Drawing a deep breath, she focused her attention on the door's lock pad. She could absolutely wring Jim's neck for the way he kept fooling around with the codes—sometimes even daily, and she had a pretty good idea why. Only last week he had told her, drunk and desperate, "Promise me. Promise you won't have me hauled off to some damn detox center." "Jim," she answered, "you can't keep on like this." And for once he had seemed to agree. "I know…you're right. I'll work my way out of this mess…but I'll do it my _own_ way. Understood?" And she had nodded.

Now her fingers felt cold and clumsy as she punched in every code she could remember. Then, just on a whim, 1701. There was a faint but satisfying electronic beep and the lock disengaged. Quickly she grabbed her things and stepped inside.

Pale fingers of light reached from the eastern windows, into the dusky stillness of the living room. Lauren held her breath and listened. Such silence. Even the antique clock on the shelf had stopped ticking from neglect.

"Jim," she called out. Then louder, "Jim! Are you alright?"

The silence seemed to deepen.

Lauren dumped the groceries and her purse on a side table and triggered the lights. Her stomach lurched as she spied Kirk's empty wheelchair beside his sofa. Within arm's reach was a medicine bottle and a half drained decanter of Saurian brandy.

Fearful of what she would find, she made herself move forward. Kirk's sofa faced away from the entry, toward the chairs that were arranged against a wall. In better days, he had entertained here. She was almost on top of the sofa before she found the former starship captain sprawled over the plump, cream-colored cushions. For a moment she just stared at him in relief, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest in the shadows. Then relief gave way to anger. How many times had she found him in the brandy this past summer? How many times had she sworn she would never come back? She'd had enough of this kind of heartbreak from her own father—more than enough to last a lifetime.

Her eyes ran the length of Kirk's once-vital body, settling on the third finger of his right hand, where a ring glimmered. Even after leaving Starfleet he had continued to wear the Enterprise signet, a gift from Spock one Christmas. Spock had always been giving things to Jim. Yet over the years, Kirk had done his own share of giving—the priceless gifts of friendship, warmth, and humor that made Spock feel welcome in a world that did not always appreciate the half-Vulcan. Perhaps more than anyone, she knew how much that friendship had meant to her husband.

Taking a medscanner from a utility pouch on her uniform, she ran a diagnostic, confirming his inebriated state before delivering a hefty dose of counternol and vitamins with a hypospray. As she triggered the injection, Kirk's body jerked and he sucked in a deep, snoring breath. He reeked so of stale liquor that she stepped back in disgust. And the thought came to her, as it did every single day: _If only Spock wasn't in prison._ He wouldn't be swayed by these painful emotions. He would know how to handle Jim, know how to bring him back to his senses one way or another _._

But Spock _was_ in prison, and Kirk needed help now. But from whom? Who among Kirk's friends and relatives was left? These past months he had worked hard at alienating everyone who cared about him, from his cousin Lucas to Doctor McCoy. In his bitterness he had even managed to get rid of Carol Marcus, one of his staunchest supporters during his recovery.

Lauren wandered over to the wall of windows that overlooked San Francisco Bay. How Kirk had always loved the view, particularly like this when the stars were coming out and the water began to reflect the city lights. How cold and lonely the scene must look to him now.

Her eyes rose to the velvet sky and settled on a distant star. Somewhere out there were two sister planets, one of which was named Sydok—home to the only person who might have the stomach to pull Kirk out of his decline—if it was not already too late for him. Making a decision, she turned to Kirk's computer and planned a transmission to her stepdaughter T'Beth.

oooo

On Romar, Spock sat down at a message cubicle and inserted the com disk which had passed from the prison's censorship department into his hands. Lauren appeared on the screen and delivered her message in a few brief sentences. Jim Kirk's condition was no better, and she had appealed to T'Beth for help. She could only hope that their daughter would have some positive influence on him.

"I just wish…" Lauren continued, but the sentence trailed away, unfinished.

Spock knew what she had meant to tell him. _I just wish you were able to come, instead._

Regret stirred, and he found his thoughts drifting back to a nameless pond in a steaming alien oasis. In memory's eye he held the captain's poisoned, spasming body and felt the life draining out of him. Spock had almost met his own death, as well. The Kirk who later rose to consciousness bore little resemblance to the vibrant man Spock had known for decades. Yes, there had been moments when the old Kirk shone through-back before Jim's spirit began to follow his body into decline. But from that point on, Spock's relationship with his friend had been clouded by sadness and pity.

Spock forced his attention back on the screen. Replaying the message, he froze a frame of his wife's discouraged face. Clearly his imprisonment was placing a severe strain on her. The separation from his family grieved him as well, all the more because—this time—it was a result of his own moral failure. Out of a sense of revenge he had taken a prisoner's life, and now his wife and children were sharing in the punishment imposed upon him by the court.

Somewhere behind him, a siren blared—one of many that sounded at regular intervals throughout the tightly regimented prison day. Lockup in fifteen minutes. Reluctantly Spock pocketed his disk and limped toward the cellblock where he would spend the night.

oooo

It was an unseasonably warm September day. The sun beat down on Lauren as she hurried back to Starfleet Medical Center after running an errand for her supervisor. There was a time when her rank and reputation as a research scientist had given her the authority to send underlings wherever they were needed. Now, as a lowly lieutenant-on-probation, she was the one scurrying.

Entering the lab, she glimpsed a bearded young man being escorted into the office that had once been hers. Startled, she pulled up short and stared. _Could it be?_ Yes—there was no mistaking Aaron Pascal. But what was he doing here?

Lauren had known Aaron for years, but Spock had known him ever longer. Orphaned as a youngster, Aaron had been taken in by grandparents living in a remote village high in the French Alps. At an early age he showed a marked aptitude for science and mathematics, and by sixteen had so distinguished himself that Starfleet actively sought to recruit him. One of the agents they sent to France was a half-Vulcan named Spock. Even back then the two shared an intellectual rapport, for young Pascal returned with Spock to San Francisco and was duly enrolled in the academy's science and engineering program. Three years later, Aaron attended a class taught by Spock on the physics of interstellar Space travel. In another three years, Aaron was teaching the class himself. Now, at 32 years of age, Commander Pascal was considered one of Starfleet's top minds, but to Lauren he was her husband's friend, a quiet gentlemanly dinner guest who slipped from the table and holed up with Spock to discuss the mysteries of the universe. Or so it had been in better times. Until today, she had never noticed him here at the medical center. What could it mean?

That evening Lauren was still puzzling over Pascal when her ten-year-old son plopped beside her on the sofa. His dark curly head bent over a pad of paper as he somberly swirled one of the twins' crayons. Simon sketching? Music was his usual medium of expression.

"What are you drawing?" she asked.

"A black hole." He stopped to point at the dark picture. "If you look way down inside, you can see Uncle Jim."

Lauren moved closer and noticed a tiny figure floating in the vortex. Then she saw another. "And who's that?"

It was a moment before Simon answered in a low, bitter voice. "That one's Father."

Lauren's heart sank. Gently touching his shoulder, she said, "Honey, your father hasn't disappeared, and he isn't pulling away from us like Jim. You know he cares about you; he's always sending you coms. Why don't you ever look at them?"

"Because I don't want to!" he said in a burst of anger.

"But Simon—"

The boy abruptly wadded the paper. As he stalked away, Lauren fought down a stinging rush of tears. More than anything, this hurt her—to see Simon turning against his father. There was a time when Spock had seemed perfect in Simon's eyes—perhaps too perfect—but since Spock's imprisonment their relationship had gone steadily downhill. Simon felt betrayed; he felt abandoned, and nothing Lauren said seemed to make a bit of difference. She could only hope that he would not infect Teresa and James with his negative attitude.

The twins were already in bed, but now she went upstairs to check on them. A night light in the shape of an angel shone softly between their headboards. As usual, James had crawled in beside Teresa. The little girl slept with one chubby arm around her brother, as if protecting him from the chronic illness that so often sent him to the hospital. The sweet scene tugged at Lauren. They also needed their father. Bending down, she gently kissed each precious cheek, but they were too deep in their dreams to notice.

oooo

It was too beautiful a morning for such an unpleasant mission. An hour earlier T'Beth had let herself into Jim Kirk's apartment and now she hesitated at his bedroom door, caught up in a flood of memories. It was senseless thinking about what might have been. Jim's accident had left him paralyzed and embittered, and these days she had her own share of problems. A brief, stormy relationship on Sydok had left her with a mountain of regrets and an infant daughter that her family on Earth knew nothing about. At this point she had no business preaching to anyone, but Lauren had asked that she come and T'Beth had found that she could not stand idly by when there was a chance—any chance—of helping this man who had always meant so much to her.

It was after ten and breakfast was waiting. Drawing a shaky breath, she tapped firmly on his door. When there was no response, she slowly opened it and peeked inside. The bedroom was dark and stuffy. Her hand found the environmental controls near the doorjamb. She turned up the ventilation and triggered the blinds open, letting in a soft flood of light.

Kirk broke out of sleep and his head jerked off the pillow. Bleary-eyed, he squinted at her in disbelief. _"T'Beth…?"_

She forced her mouth into the semblance of a smile. The muscles in her jaw ached from pretending, but she dared not show how deeply his appearance shocked her. Judging by the stubble on his face, he had not bothered to shave or use beard repressor in days. He looked sickly, dissipated, hostile…and perhaps worst of all, he looked old. She was so used to her seemingly ageless father.

"No," she said with false cheer, "this isn't a nightmare. It really is me."

"How in blazes did you get in here?" he demanded.

Her smile faded. "You didn't answer your door…and Lauren gave me some lock codes…"

Kirk grimaced and slumped back on the pillow. "One helluva nerve. _Damn_ her."

"Yes, well…I'm afraid I haven't got that kind of authority, but I _do_ intend to stay here for a time and make your life a living hell."

The head popped back up, eyes flaming. "Funny. Real funny. Now suppose you go back to your stepmom like a good little girl…and tell _her_ to leave me alone, too."

T'Beth bristled. "I have a better idea. Suppose that _you_ go shave and shower like a good little boy and come out to the table for breakfast."

He briefly sniffed at the aroma of home-cooked bacon. Then glowering, he sank back down and pulled the covers over his head. "Shove it!" came the muffled response.

It was past noon when he finally made an appearance. He had not bothered to wash or shave or even comb his disheveled mop of graying hair. With a robe thrown haphazardly over his underwear, he wheeled out into the living room and fixed T'Beth with an icy gaze.

"Are you still here?" he questioned in a rude tone.

The words stung, but T'Beth merely pointed to the table where the bacon and muffins awaited a quick warm-up. "Yes, I'm still here waiting for you…and so is breakfast."

Kirk glanced at the food, then purposefully wheeled to the liquor cabinet and rummaged inside. Empty bottles clanged against drained decanters as he searched in vain for the exotic brews she had poured down the drain.

"You might try calling Lauren," she coolly suggested. "There's a bit of Vulcan shayo in _her_ cabinet."

Realizing what she had done, he turned on her, hands clutching the chair's wheel guides. "Who do you think you are?!"

She stood and faced him with all the dignity she could muster. "My father's daughter. Remember?"

"Did _he_ tell you to come here and meddle in my affairs?"

"No one tells me to do anything—you know that. Look at yourself, Jim. You'd think I just stole your life blood. Is that what that stuff has become to you?"

His face contorted with rage. "Get out! Get the hell out of my apartment right now—do you hear me?"

T'Beth's throat tightened and she came very close to doing just that. This miserable shell of a man—this angry stranger—after all, who was he? Surely not the same Jim Kirk who had befriended a lonely mixed-breed girl and tried to set her on the right path. But clamping down on her emotions, she turned and headed into the kitchen. She heard his voice and knew without looking that he was at the computer, attempting to place an order. She was standing at the sink, bracing for another outburst, when he discovered that she had imposed a "child lock" that would prevent him from buying liquor.

He flew into a tantrum. Muscles tensed, she waited, fully expecting him to come after her with the same kind of violence he was inflicting on the living room. To her relief, the storm blew over quickly. After he wheeled into his bedroom, she ventured out to assess the damage. Not surprisingly, the computer had taken the worst of it—a fitting punishment for having refused his commands. There remained only one thing for him to do, and even he was not so desperate as to go shopping in his underwear.

T'Beth prepared herself for the next skirmish, and she did not have to wait long. Amazing, what a craving for alcohol could accomplish. Showered, dressed, and impeccably groomed, James T. Kirk aimed his wheelchair at the front door…and the slender young woman who stood in his path.

"Get out of my way," he warned, "or I'll call the police and have you thrown out."

"I'm not about to stop you," she told him. "I'm glad to see you getting out. In fact, I have a wonderful day planned for us."

He closed his eyes tightly, as if they pained him, and let his head loll forward. "Damn," he muttered, "give it up, will you?" Drawing a slow deep breath, he looked at her and spoke almost civilly. "Go back to your life on Sydok; there's nothing you can do here. _Nothing_."

T'Beth swallowed hard. "Jim, I just want to spend some time with you. I'm not asking for anything."

"Except the entire contents of my liquor cabinet," he said tartly, "and my freedom…and my privacy."

A slow flush crept over her face. Suddenly, she saw herself as he saw her—an unwanted, interfering trespasser—and she could not help but feel a twinge of remorse for the heavy-handed way she had barged in on him.

"I see your point," she admitted, "but if you can just give me this one day…then, if you want me to leave, if you want to drown yourself in a whole bathtub full of Saurian, I'll get out of your way. Heck, I'll even fill the tub for you."

Jim shook his head in exasperation. "I thought you weren't asking for anything."

As T'Beth put her hands on her hips and waited for an answer, he sighed as if he was sick of arguing.

oooo

"Hey!"

Spock started at the booming sound of Leo Kessler's voice. So distant were his thoughts, that he had not heard his friend and cellmate approaching along the wooded trail. He rose from the sunny niche where he had stopped to rest. Despite regular medication and treatment, his leg muscles weakened easily.

Leo placed a big hand on his shoulder. "You okay? I swear you were a thousand light years away."

"Yes, I am fine," Spock said. He was not inclined to offer more, and Leo did not press him. In truth, he had spent most of his weekly "furlough"—the day of rest and relative freedom granted to well-behaved prisoners—in a pensive mood. There had been a message from his daughter T'Beth, sent off as she was approaching Earth. She would be going to Jim's apartment and there was no telling what sort of reception she had gotten, but Spock suspected it was not kindly. It would have been far better for everyone concerned if he could have gone in her stead.

"Spock," Leo said impatiently, "you haven't heard a thing I've been saying, have you?"

Spock roused himself and turned to him. It was good to see Leo looking so tanned and healthy. Since leaving the cramped, airless confines of the Luna penitentiary, Leo had undergone an extraordinary rebirth of spirit. Gone was the angry caged animal who introduced Spock to prison life with the toe of his boot. Sometimes it was difficult to believe this was the same man.

"Pardon me," Spock apologized. "You were saying…?"

Leo shook his great blond head. "I was saying, my Vulcan friend, that you had better keep your eyes open and your wits about you. Some of the guys who came here from Luna might consider you a hero, but Ronaldi had his friends, you know. Take Jukka, for instance."

The mere mention of Arthur Jukka made Spock go cold. A repulsive specimen of humanity, Jukka had been prominent in Ronaldi's gang at Luna. He was one of the men who held Spock while Ronaldi beat him senseless. Repressing the painful memory, Spock said, "Yes, I am aware of Jukka's aggressive tendencies, but he would not dare cause me any further trouble."

Leo folded his thick arms across his chest. "And why is that?"

"Because," Spock replied, straight-faced, "he would have to answer to you."

Leo broke up in laughter and clapped Spock on the back. "Right you are, right you are, but it never hurts to be careful." His gray eyes glimmered with excitement. "After all, I'd like you to be in one piece when we get out of here."

Astonished, Spock raised an eyebrow. "We? Then I assume you have received word…"

"On the court review?" Leo finished for him. "Yes! They've commuted my life sentence! If they consider me rehabilitated, I could be freed even before you!"

oooo

It was not turning out to be a pleasant meal. As the dismal silence in the restaurant booth deepened, T'Beth inwardly quailed at the task she had set for herself. How could she have been so impulsive? It had taken Jim months to reduce himself to this wretched state. What could she hope to accomplish in the span of a few hours?

She cast about for something to say, and was relieved when the waiter finally arrived with their plates. Cheeseburgers and fries—in the face of Kirk's complete indifference, she had selected the classic meal for him. Now he sat there staring off into space while the food grew cold on his plate.

T'Beth felt her patience slipping. "Is there something wrong with your hamburger? Did they forget the onions?"

He flashed her a poisonous look, then continued ignoring her as she downed a few bites.

She began to think that half a day would have been quite enough, even half an hour. But what difference did it make if he acted unfriendly? Had she come here expecting him to fawn over her? Is that why she had left Sydok and her baby?

After eating, T'Beth took him along with her to the Buddhist temple on Fell Street. There, in its peaceful interior she told him, "I started coming here after my healing."

"Oh, that's right." His words were heavy with sarcasm. "You've always claimed that your legs were healed on Donari—in the wink of an eye, no less."

"Not through any merit of mine. It was because the Donaris prayed for me."

"What a wonderful privilege," he sniped. "Well, it looks like _I'm_ not worth God's attention."

Her heart went out to him. "Jim, it wasn't only my legs that were healed. Have you tried to pray?"

He reached for his chair's wheel grips. "Ah, here it comes. Time to go."

She had to move quickly to keep pace with him. Okay then, introspection was out—so she would just have to come up with another idea. She searched hard among her memories of the old Jim Kirk who had found such pleasure in physical activity. She remembered once hearing Doctor McCoy complain about being dragged along on a rafting trip.

What better way to jolt Kirk out of his depression? An hour later he was snugged beside her in a rented raft drifting down a placid stretch of California river. So far, so good. After double-checking their life vests, she experimentally dipped her oar into the water.

"This is all new to me," she admitted. "What should I do?"

Warmed by the afternoon sun, Jim rolled up his sleeves and grudgingly showed her the proper way to work an oar. There was nothing weak about his arms, and out here under the sky, he seemed younger. As the current carried them downstream, she could not help remembering another time, another day spent on the bank of a river, fishing, when Jim was still able to walk. How kindly he had treated her. At one point he even grew playful, chasing her among the trees, until they fell to the ground together and her Sy yearning drew him into an unexpected kiss. Now, that same mouth was a cold, taut slash—as if he was hating this, hating every minute of it. What had become of that caring, humorous Kirk?

T'Beth wondered what he was thinking. Was he also reliving that kiss? Did he still resent her for loving him, for unwittingly making him love her? The idea made her uncomfortable, and she shifted around so that no part of their bodies were touching—not even an elbow.

Quietly she said, "Jim, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have insisted on coming out here. If you like, we can signal for a pick-up and go back to your apartment."

His hands clenched his oar and he turned his head away. "If I like. When did you ever give a damn about that? About anything but your own selfish desires?"

Hot tears pricked her eyes. "I guess I had that coming…"

Kirk whirled around and faced her. "You bet you did! What is it you told me awhile back?" He began to mimic her in a high voice. "Oh Jim, I've changed. I've seen the light and I'm such a good girl now."

T'Beth froze inside. Did he know about the baby? She had been so careful, but rumors always had a way of spreading.

He paused for a breath and reverted back to his regular tone. "Sounds like you've had a real high time on Sydok. You and your panting prince Ap-Pakesh, with his stables full of horses and concubines."

The hateful words so infuriated T'Beth that she swung at him. Kirk warded off the clumsy, backhanded cuff, and his look of anger gradually faded to a pale shadow of the old Kirk humor.

"Well," he said, "at least now you're not treating me like an invalid."

T'Beth struggled with her emotions. _Treating him like an invalid? Not a chance!_ And thickly she said, "I don't know what you've heard, but I went riding with Ap-Pakesh—once—that was all."

He smirked. "Riding. Yes. Some might call it that."

His insinuation was so very close to the truth that she fell silent.

The raft bobbed around a sharp bend in the river and picked up speed. There was a roaring sound coming from the gorge up ahead. A powerful cross-current slapped into them, and they began to move sideways in the churning water.

T'Beth's heart raced as she fought a panicky urge to abandon her oar and clutch the side of the raft with all her might. She shouted, "I thought these were supposed to be light rapids!"

"Don't tell me you're afraid!" Kirk said mean-spiritedly.

She glanced over just as his oar hit a rock and snapped free of its oar lock. To her astonishment he simply let the oar go. As it plunged into the river, the little raft began to spin. Waves pounded over the sides, drenching them with frigid water. A boulder loomed up and struck the raft broadside, nearly throwing them overboard. An instant later the current caught them and they were speeding along, out of control.

"Are you crazy?" she cried. "Why did you toss that oar? Are you completely nuts?"

He just looked at her.

Then they slammed into another boulder and T'Beth hit the river. She flailed against the icy shock, choking a bit as the raging river swept her downstream. _Where was Jim?_

There was a flash of orange. A tug. A hand clutching her life vest.

"Veer toward the bank!" he shouted into her ear. "Swim! Kick your legs!"

Relief tingled through her body, along with a fresh jolt of anger. The swift current scraped and bounced them against multiple rocks as they worked their way toward land. At last the rapids gave way to a smooth, lazy eddy. T'Beth felt something solid under her feet and struggled out of the river, dragging Kirk to safety. She collapsed on the sunny riverbank. Using his arms, Kirk scrabbled the rest of the way and then lay on his back beside her, shivering hard, bleeding from a cut on his chin.

T'Beth thought of what had just happened, thought of the helpless baby on Sydok nearly orphaned by this man's foolishness, and her temper exploded. "You stupid ass!" she shouted. "What the hell were trying to do—kill us?"

Turning his head, he looked at her with such a pained expression that she almost regretted losing her temper. Quietly he said, "I didn't mean to drop the oar. Sometimes my hands…" His voice broke off, his gaze shifted to the cloudless sky overhead.

Now T'Beth felt like a complete fool. Rising on one elbow, she looked over at him. Their eyes met, giving rise to an aching tangle of emotions. How she longed to open up and explain how it had happened with Ap-Pakesh—one feverish, overwhelming episode of Sy hormones; to tell him of the baby that resulted, and how much she wished Jim was Bethany's father.

But she dared not trust him…not as he was now. So she simply asked, "Are you okay?"

He nodded and she reached inside her life vest to activate the pick-up beacon.

oooo

News of T'Beth and Jim's mishap reached Lauren at work. It had been a nerve-wracking day, and she arrived home tired and unprepared for the chaos that awaited her. As soon as the babysitter walked out the door, Teresa threw herself onto the floor.

"Where's Daddy?" she howled over and over again. "I want my daddy, I want him, I want him!"

Nearby, little James stood white-faced while silent tears coursed down his cheeks.

Lauren cast an accusing look at their big brother, slumped in a chair. "Alright, young man, what have you been saying to them?"

Simon's eyes narrowed insolently. "What difference does it make? They know he got kicked out of Starfleet. They know he's locked up. They know he murdered that guy in prison with his bare hands."

Teresa shrieked louder.

Striding over, Lauren jerked Simon off the chair and marched him upstairs to his bedroom. In the midst of her anger she recalled another stressful day when she slapped him so hard that his nose bled. Now she felt like striking him again—but she didn't dare or there would be no stopping herself. She would beat her son the way she had been beaten by her drunken father—mindlessly, viciously.

Fists clenched at her sides, she said, "You think you know so damn much! You think you can sit in judgment over your own father!"

The wide-eyed boy backed against his bed.

Trembling, Lauren drew in a couple of deep breaths and forced her hands to open. "Don't— _ever_ —talk about him that way again. Do you hear me?"

Simon nodded. Lauren felt a rush of tears coming and left the room before he could see them.

Later that night, when the house was still, she came to regret her harshness. Simon was only repeating the ugly remarks he heard from other children, the same kind of remarks Lauren sometimes overheard from adults. The boy was confused, the boy was hurting. With Spock in prison and Kirk wrapped up in himself, he had lost the two most meaningful male influences in his life. When he looked at them he saw a couple of failures who made him feel angry and ashamed.

Lauren slept fitfully and rose before dawn to enter her husband's study. Switching on the lights, she took in every detail of Spock's orderly retreat. She had seldom come here this past year. It was so painful, seeing everything arranged just as he left it on the day of his arrest. Sighing, she wandered over to his desk and trailed her finger through the layer of dust that had accumulated. Opening the French doors, she stepped onto the balcony and stood thinking, just as Spock used to do. The misty lights of the city lay before her, and stars shone overhead.

Lauren pressed her fingers to her temples and concentrated on the faint sense of her husband's presence. _What was he doing right now on Romar? Was he safe? Was he thinking of her?_

Gradually the stars faded and fog rolled in from the ocean, making Spock seemed more distant than ever. Shivering in the morning chill, she went indoors to prepare for work.

Over breakfast she tried talking to Simon. "Look, I know this past year has been hard on you. The kids your age say a lot of mean things…but they're wrong. I don't want you talking about your father that way; I don't want you even thinking it. If you only knew how much he cares about us…"

Glowering, Simon kicked back his chair and left the table.

Somehow Lauren got everyone off to school. She was not in the mood for work today. At times the added responsibilities thrust upon her by Spock's imprisonment seemed overwhelming, and she had to remind herself that it was not going to last forever. Settling behind the controls of her ground car, she turned on the ignition…but nothing happened. Totally dead. And Spock's skimmer was in need of fuel. Needless to say, she arrived late at SMC, where a summons to her supervisor's office awaited her. A reprimand, she assumed. Steeling herself, she went through the doorway and came face to face with Commander Aaron Pascal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Romar Penal Colony contrasted sharply with the desolate, airless prison where Spock had been incarcerated before Lauren engineered his escape. Unlike Luna, Romar was a hospitable Class M planet with an abundance of water. Clouds formed regularly in the pale blue sky, unleashing gentle rain on a lush variety of native plant growth, as well as the food crops cultivated by inmates for the colony's use.

The seasons on Romar were not harsh by Earth standards, but for Spock any mild storm could easily produce a chill. Even now, at the height of summer, he was issued a Vulcan warming suit to wear under his yellow coveralls whenever he chose.

From his first week, he had been assigned to the maintenance and repair of agricultural equipment. Almost daily some machine broke down in the field or demanded some other on-the-spot attention. On these occasions he consulted a datapadd tech manual and toiled bareheaded in a heat that left his human co-workers dripping with perspiration. He did not mind it when his suffering assistants crept off to a spot of shade, leaving him to finish the job on his own. He welcomed the solitude and the challenge of setting the temperamental equipment right.

Spock was up to his elbows in a stalled tractor when he heard the roar of a hover-truck, and a dust cloud blew into his face. Wiping the grit from his eyes, he straightened in time to see a trustee alight from the ancient, unwieldy craft that Spock had repaired only three days earlier.

With a self-important shout, the trustee beckoned to him. "You there—Spock! Up front!"

Spock experienced a surge of tension. A call "up front" almost always meant a disciplinary meeting with the warden. As he climbed in beside the trustee, his workmates rose from their shady niche, cursing fluently. The truck lifted off the cultivated field. It was a wild, lurching ride to the administration complex.

The trustee smirked as he worked the controls. "A date with the warden. So it seems you're not such a saint, after all."

Spock ignored him and stared out the dirty window. He had never made any claim to sainthood. Since coming to Romar he had committed his share of minor infractions, but none to merit a personal admonishment from Warden Smythe. He sincerely hoped that nothing had happened to mar his record.

They arrived at Administration. The driver gloated as he gave Spock an official "calling card" summoning him before the warden. There was no time even to wash the grease from his hands; he was already three minutes late for the appointment.

Precisely one minute, thirty-two seconds later, Spock entered Warden Smythe's domain. His office was roomy and elegant. The walls were decorated with murals painted by artistically inclined inmates, and pots of flowering plants filled the air with a sweet scent.

Commandant Smythe glanced up from his gleaming desk and looked steadily at Spock before letting his mouth curve into the vague suggestion of a smile.

"Well," Smythe said, "I suppose you have a pretty good idea of why you are here?"

Spock recalled his introductory meeting with Smythe upon arriving at the colony. How different it had been from his initial confrontation with Warden Cho of Luna. Right from the beginning the cruel, cynical Cho had made his contempt for Spock abundantly clear. Smythe's calm, gentlemanly demeanor was more difficult to read.

As a Vulcan, Spock fell back on a literal interpretation of Smythe's query. "I am here, sir, because you sent for me."

Smythe's blue eyes sparkled with apparent humor. Smiling openly, he shook his graying head. "A safe answer, if I ever heard one. Almost an evasive answer—but your background leaves you well qualified for that, among other things…"

Spock stood very still.

The warden continued in a more sober vein. "When we first spoke, I assured you that unlike at Luna, you would be treated fairly here. And in return I expected you to promote harmony, not rebellion, among your fellow inmates. So far you seem to be fostering a spirit of cooperation, and your work record is…excellent." He paused. "However, all this does not make you exempt from prison regulations—now does it?"

"No sir," Spock replied, "it does not."

Smythe reached over and selected a com disk from an orderly rack on a corner of his desk. "I have here a communication from your wife, Doctor Fielding."

Spock's mouth tightened. Censorship was a fact of prison life, but he had never grown accustomed to having his privacy invaded in this manner. As he watched, Smythe put the disk into his computer and turned the screen toward Spock.

"This arrived only this morning. See for yourself what it says."

Lauren appeared on the screen and spoke. The brief message—sent from a starliner en route to Romar—was not directed at him, after all, but to the warden. When it was over, the screen blinked off.

"I see," Spock said, keeping all expression from his face. Now he understood why he had been called here.

Smythe nodded. "I had half a mind to send her packing. I don't care if she is a physician, all conjugal visits must be pre-approved. She knows that…and so do you."

"Yes," Spock agreed. "I did not know she was coming."

The warden sighed. "Against my better judgment, I've decided to bend the regs a bit—just this once. I've made it quite clear to Doctor Fielding that in the future she must follow visiting procedures to the letter, or be turned away. She's waiting at Cottage Four. You have 48 hours."

oooo

Lauren paced on the cottage side of the security gate. How many feet had walked this same path before her? Wives waiting impatiently for husbands, sweethearts for lovers, parents for their imprisoned sons. There was a rut worn in the tough Romar lawn, a sad story for every trampled blade of grass.

At last she heard footfalls and the low electronic beep that signaled the gate release.

Spock entered the yard. Lauren put out her arms, saw the grime and the grease, and hugged him anyway. For a long moment they stood silently holding one another so closely that she could feel the lifeblood pulsing in his neck. As they kissed, her throat constricted painfully, for she knew how quickly the precious hours would fly.

Still touching him, she eased back and searched his face, drinking in every well-loved contour. "How have you been? Is everything alright?"

His brown eyes gazed upon her with fond reproach. "I was doing well enough until the warden called me into his office for a lecture on visitation rules."

Lauren refused to be chastened. "When you hear what I have to say, you won't give a Vulcan fig about the warden or anything else."

Spock's manner changed to one of curiosity as he took in her glowing smile. "Good news?"

Catching hold of his work-stained hand, she tugged him toward the river trail. "Come on, I'll tell you."

"I need to shower," he said.

She shook her head and urged him onward. "Later."

Spock let himself be led along the scenic stretch of river reserved for the cottagers' use, but stopped at the first secluded spot along the trail.

Facing her, he said, "Far enough. It is time you tell me what this is all about."

Lauren's heart raced with excitement. "It's about you. It's about Jim Kirk. And it's about Aaron Pascal."

Spock's eyebrow climbed. "Indeed."

Lauren told him about her meeting with his protégé, and its surprising outcome. "After your accident he started experimenting with transporter technology. He's discovered a way to rearrange atoms—to sort out what's damaged and replace it with healthy tissue. Spock, I'm talking about a major medical breakthrough."

Deep in thought, Spock turned and gazed at the slow-moving river. Birdlike creatures darted over the rippling surface, dipped suddenly, then rose again with eel fish clamped in their jaws. "Fascinating," he said under his breath. "We had, at one time, discussed such a possibility…"

"He's been working with laboratory mice, and dogs, and chimpanzees. He clones cells from test subjects and redirects them to problem areas. A couple of spins through his Transmigrator and they come out as good as new." Lauren moved a step nearer. "Spock, he's ready to try it on a humanoid."

He met her eyes. "He is considering Jim?"

She nodded. "Aaron's going to ask him. Spock, it'll work. I've seen the studies. I feel it in my bones."

One eyebrow rose again in a typically disdainful fashion. "Lauren, I do not mean to disparage your…bones…but I would like very much to review Pascal's data for myself."

His second brow likewise climbed as she reached down the front of her dress. She brought out a computer disk in a sensor-resistant case and waved it like a prize. "Guess what I have?"

oooo

Remarkably, T'Beth's single afternoon with Kirk had stretched into a month. She would almost think he was getting used to having her around—a sort of daytime doormat upon which he could wipe his proverbial shoes whenever an ugly mood struck. It took very little to throw him into a temper—especially when he had been drinking, and he still did plenty of that.

T'Beth slept in her old bedroom at Lauren's house, where she able to check for any coms from Sydok. Almost daily she would find warm greetings from her grandfather and feast her eyes upon the fair-haired baby in his arms. Bethany was smiling now, and it broke T'Beth's heart to think of all the other firsts she was missing through this tangled web of secrecy.

"Soon," she promised little Bethany. "I'll be back home with you as soon as I can."

The very next weekend, Lauren asked her to bring Kirk home for dinner. T'Beth assumed it was a family meal and was rather disconcerted to find one of her father's Starfleet associates joining Lauren and the children at the table. She had a clear memory of Commander Pascal from her seventeenth year—the year she had lived upstairs with Spock while he tried to patch together the ruins of his marriage. Because Pascal was her father's friend, she had treated him coldly. No—to tell the truth, she had been insufferably rude. Just thinking of those days embarrassed her, but if Pascal remembered, he gave no sign. He was a reserved, gracious man who spoke with the same charming French accent as T'Beth's deceased grandmother, Justrelle. All through dinner he showed a genuine interest in the children and even accepted a sticky, rambunctious kiss from Teresa. T'Beth admired him for not wiping his cheek afterward.

Commander Pascal tried speaking to Kirk, too, but all his polite efforts to draw the former starship captain into conversation were met with terse, unfriendly responses. These days any mention of Starfleet rubbed Jim the wrong way. Thank goodness Pascal was out of uniform, or Kirk would never have sat at the same table.

After dinner, Lauren ordered the children upstairs while the adults took their coffee into the living room. One look at her face warned T'Beth that something important was about to happen.

Then Lauren focused her attention on Kirk and said, "Aaron would like to talk to you about a project he's developed."

Brown eyes sparkling with excitement, Pascal set down his coffee cup and scooted to the edge of his chair. "Captain Kirk—" he began in a soft, intense voice.

 _"_ _Mister_ Kirk," Jim interjected.

Pascal began again. "Mr. Kirk, I'm sure you're quite familiar with transporter technology…"

T'Beth listened, enrapt, as Pascal went on to describe remarkable advances in that field, and the encouraging success he was having with a new medical application. With a shock she realized that he was talking about the instantaneous restructuring of body tissue. Such a procedure could cure people with neurological damage—people like Jim and her father.

Pascal leaned forward as he addressed Kirk in his wheelchair. "Of course it's true there are some risks involved—there always are when mankind is making advances. But your entire life has been dedicated to exploration, and I would be honored, sir, if you would consider being the first human patient to benefit from this technology."

A hush fell over the room. Simon could be heard tuning his violin. Mosha the cat crawled out from under the sofa and stretched her lean calico body before heading upstairs. After the brief, whimsical distraction, all eyes turned back to Kirk. The stubborn set of his jaw gave T'Beth a sinking feeling.

Lauren spoke up. "Jim, I just got back from Romar. Spock went over the project with a fine tooth comb. He says the theory is sound and the data is impressive."

But it was obvious that Kirk was not listening to her. His eyes settled bitterly on Pascal. "This is a Starfleet project."

"Why yes," replied the commander, "from start to finish."

"Then count me out!"

Pascal's mouth opened in dismay.

"Jim…" Lauren began in a conciliatory tone, but Kirk cut her off.

"I think I know my own mind, Lauren." Using a wrist phone, he ordered a transport home and abruptly wheeled his way clear of the others.

T'Beth stood. "Wait, Jim. I'll take you."

A transporter beam enveloped him, then he was gone.

oooo

It was lunchtime on the prison colony of Romar, but in view of the day's news, Spock would not be eating. After a quick wash he signed out an old Harley Airbike from the maintenance shed, strapped on a helmet, and skimmed five miles to the prison infirmary.

By now everyone had heard of Leo Kessler's "accident", but Spock would check on his friend and hear Leo's own account of what happened. He found his cellmate in a treatment ward, drifting in and out of awareness. Though Leo was heavily medicated, the monitor above his bed registered a significant level of pain and Leo's taut, pallid face confirmed it.

Spock stepped up to the bed and spoke his friend's name.

Leo moaned and began to thrash about. Suddenly his gray eyes snapped open. Finding Spock at his side, he went still. "So…" he gasped, "…you came to visit…your clumsy pal."

That, Spock doubted. "I never knew you to be clumsy, Leo. I do not believe that you fell into a devil mite nest. You were baited—weren't you?"

Leo twitched with torment and gave a strangled laugh. "Man, this is embarrassing. If there'd been only two or three…I might have handled them."

Spock's mouth drew into a grim line. He was intimately acquainted with that brand of embarrassment. In prison, gangs of five or six men were customarily used to carry out "dirty work". The victim had little chance of escaping. Here on Romar, "baitings" were the preferred method of assault. It was a cruel, straightforward process. After immobilizing the intended target, devil mites were poured down his half-zipped coverall. The suit was then closed tight and the victim held screaming while the angry mites went about their exquisitely painful business.

"Who was responsible?" Spock demanded to know.

Leo moaned. "They said…I was hanging out…with the wrong company."

"You have the right to whatever company you choose," Spock declared with some asperity. "Was it by any chance _my_ company that they found objectionable?"

Leo glanced around the ward, and seeing no one nearby, admitted, "It was Jukka and his bunch…you know the ones. They said it was only a warning…that they were going to get you…get you good…for killing Ronaldi." He forced a twisted, humorless smile. "Be careful, friend… "

Spock briefly touched a feverish arm. "Be assured, I shall."

He wondered if Leo expected him to retaliate on his behalf. There were many subtle ways to make life uncomfortable for inmates who harmed one's friend, and it was tempting to do so. But such actions inevitably resulted in the sort of gang warfare that had been so evident at Luna. For a moment Spock actually considered reporting the incident to Warden Smythe, who seemed to set such value on fairness. But even here on Romar, prison life held its own code governing behavior, and "squealing" brought trouble of the worst kind.

Spock took leave of his friend and headed for the exit. Passing through the door, he emerged into the daylight…and stopped short. The Airbike was not where he had parked it. The bike was not anywhere in sight. Now, not only would he be late returning to his job, he would also be held responsible for the missing Harley. Apparently Jukka and his cohorts were hard at work.

Five miles was a painfully long distance for nerve-damaged legs to cover. As Spock limped along the quiet stretch of road, he kept a close watch on his surroundings, for he fully expected to be set upon. He was considering various defensive procedures when a Romarian bird swooped down, caught an insect in midflight, and winged off into the hazy distance. He could not help but envy the ease with which the bird moved, and from there his thoughts turned to his paralyzed friend on Earth. This morning he had received news of Kirk from both Lauren and T'Beth. Jim had angrily refused the experimental treatment that might enable him to walk again. The Kirk of old would never have allowed bitterness to take such a hold on him. He was behaving like a peevish, self-destructive adolescent.

Half a mile from his work site, a prison transport came flying his way. The large skimmer abruptly landed nearby. Uniformed men jumped onto the road and seized him.

"Where the hell do you think _you're_ going?" snapped a guard.

"To the maintenance shed," Spock replied.

"Smartass! Just shut up and get on board," he was told. "You're coming with us."

oooo

The warden studied Spock unhurriedly from behind the tidy confines of his desk. As always, Smythe's impassive face gave little indication of his thoughts, but the fact that Spock was manacled did not bode well.

At last Smythe stirred in his chair and spoke. "So according to your statement, the bike you were using simply 'vanished' while you were in the infirmary."

"That is correct," Spock confirmed. The brief recording taken by a correctional officer contained everything he knew about the incident, but something in Smythe's eyes suggested that he did not quite believe Spock's account.

"Vanished." The warden's voice took on a brittle edge of sarcasm. " _I'd_ say it vanished, alright—with a bit of help from you. Disabled its beacon and stashed it down by the creek, in that stretch of woods you favor."

Spock blinked; a purely autonomic response which the warden misinterpreted as surprise.

"Oh yes," Smythe declared, "we found your little hiding place. Did you really think we wouldn't?"

Spock took a moment to frame his reply. "I had hoped, sir, that you _would_ recover the Airbike. But I find it rather remarkable that it happened so quickly since—as you say—its beacon was no longer functioning. May I ask who located it?"

"Why? So you can retaliate? What kind of fool do you take me for?"

"I do not consider you a fool," Spock said with very deliberate calmness. A charge of theft would reflect badly on his prison record. It could restrict visitation privileges and add months, or even years, to his sentence. "I assure you, sir, my only intention is to clear myself of—"

Smythe cut him off. "I don't believe you! Admit it—you stole the Harley, just like you stole that ground car on Walker's World."

"I was never convicted of that charge," Spock said in his defense.

"Nevertheless, you took the car—by your own admission."

"I borrowed it. I am not proud of that fact, but at the time there was very little choice."

Smythe gave a scornful laugh. "I suppose you only 'borrowed' the Airbike, too? Did you really think I'd swallow this cock and bull story of yours?" He did not wait for a reply. "Maybe you think I've been a little lenient with you because I find your reputation intimidating. Maybe you think I'll do anything to avoid the kind of trouble you brought to Luna. Well, you'll soon discover that I'm not the least bit afraid of trouble. I know how to handle your kind. Fair treatment—that's what I promise and that's what I give to every prisoner who cooperates. Those who fail to cooperate receive their fair share of punishment."

The warden bent over a piece of paper and began writing. It looked to Spock like a disciplinary form, and Smythe's words confirmed it. "All privileges hereby revoked. And as for—"

Spock interrupted. "Sir, I respectfully remind you that as a prisoner of Starfleet, I have a right to a formal hearing presided over by a panel of correctional officers. I have a right to receive a memory scan or any other procedure that can verify my innocence."

Smythe's eyes blazed. "Yes, you're very big on rights, aren't you? What a swelled head you've got! If you were anything but a Vulcan, I'd slap you straight into solitary. But no—there won't be any restful solitude for you, nor any pleasant tour of whitewashing in the hot sun. As for your hearing, it will be scheduled at _my_ convenience—not yours!" He leaned toward the desktop intercom. "Guard!"

oooo

The sound of a door closing brought Lauren out of her home laboratory. Her mother had come in early from New York to take the twins on an excursion, and Simon was off playing a baseball game. Or so she had thought.

Stepping into the living room, she found Simon standing beside T'Beth. For an instant Lauren just stared at her son, too astonished to speak. Simon's baseball uniform was torn and it looked as if he had been rolling around in the dirt. Blood seeped from his mouth. The area under his left eye was swollen and very red.

T'Beth broke the silence. "I stopped by the game and there was a little trouble…"

Simon flashed his sister a dark look. "Just stay out of it, will you?"

"Young man, that's enough," Lauren said sharply. Taking hold of the disgruntled boy, she sat him down, got her medical kit, and went to work on his face. Although it was obvious that he had been fighting, she asked, "How did this happen?"

Simon stared at the floor in stony silence, so T'Beth provided some details. "He knocked down a boy and started slugging him. It took three of us to pull him off. The other kid's father was pretty irate—something tells me you'll be hearing from him."

 _Just what she needed_. Lauren looked at her son and sighed. Simon had never been in a serious fight before. From an early age he had been taught other, more rational ways to resolve differences. But lately he had grown so moody and short-tempered. Music was the only thing that mattered to him anymore.

"Simon," she said tiredly, "why? Why would you do such a thing?"

When the boy gave no answer, T'Beth went over to the door and quietly let herself out. Lauren did not try to stop her. Maybe if she was alone with Simon, he would open up to her. But the instant the door shut, he left the sofa and headed for the stairs.

"Young man, come back here," Lauren ordered.

He hesitated, his back stiffening in a manner poignantly reminiscent of his father. Then he defied her and kept going.

"I said _stop!"_

This time he obeyed. Turning reluctantly, he gripped the banister and glowered down at her.

"I asked you why," she said.

His eyes welled with angry tears. "He started it! He said I was an off-breed, that I wasn't even human, that I wasn't _anything!"_

The words stabbed at Lauren. "What he said was mean, but you've heard that kind of thing before. There was no reason to hit him."

A single tear trickled down his bruised face. "He said mixed-breeds like me don't belong around ordinary people, that we're all just a bunch of freaks."

"And so you hit him."

Simon shook his head. "No. I told him he didn't know what he was talking about and should shut his mouth. And then he said…" Breaking off, he blushed to the roots of his hair. "He said something about Father that I can't repeat."

She studied his anguished face and decided not to press him for details. "That's when the fight started?"

He nodded.

At this point Lauren saw only two choices. Either punish Simon for resorting to violence, or use the incident to teach a valuable lesson about his father. She joined Simon on the stairs and sat him down beside her.

"Don't tell me I shouldn't have hit him," he declared, hugging his knees tightly with his bruised hands. "You weren't there—you didn't hear what he was saying."

"You're right, I didn't," she agreed. "The things you told me were bad enough. I can understand how you got angry and lost control."

It was not what he had expected from her. Surprised, he turned and looked into her eyes. "You can…?"

She told him, "It's hard to stay calm when you're being provoked. It's even harder when someone is trying to physically hurt you." Simon's brows drew together in a frown. "That's something that your father would understand, too…because that's how it happened with Vito Ronaldi."

At the mention of Ronaldi, Simon quickly turned aside. Clearly he did not want to hear anything more about the prisoner Spock was convicted of killing.

"Your father is a good man," Lauren said, "but even a good man can only endure so much. Simon, it took three adults to pull you off that boy who made you angry. You really wanted to hurt him, didn't you?"

"Well, he hurt _me,"_ Simon said defensively.

"Yes, he did—just like Ronaldi hurt your father. You know it would take a lot to make Spock lose his temper."

Simon stared at his knees, and his voice came in a mortified whisper. "Mom…what happened between them in prison? I mean…what _really_ happened?"

Lauren felt a tightening in her belly. "You've heard things."

He nodded. "That…that there was a reason Ronaldi came after him. That Father…that he did something to him…something _bad."_

So the ugly rumor Ronaldi started in prison had reached all the way to a Little League field. Holding back tears, she hugged her son and said, "No, Simon. It's a lie. Nothing like that ever happened."

Pulling away, he fiercely said, "Then tell _them!_ Now I'll probably get kicked off the team. It's not fair! Why did Father have to go to jail, anyway?"

Lauren sighed. "Simon, you know he was falsely convicted."

"Not the second time," he shot back. He lunged to his feet, eyes flashing. "It's not fair! Why do I have to pay for _his_ mistakes?"

"Now wait a minute," she said. "You can't blame your father for what happened today."

"Oh, yes I can!" Simon shouted and ran into his room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

In prison, it seemed that a man was considered guilty until proven innocent. At Smythe's order, Spock was put on Graveyard with the sleepy-eyes unfortunates who went about in the night cleaning barns and scrubbing latrines. Not only was the work distasteful, the change in sleeping schedule presented its own set of problems, for it meant being jolted awake by every daytime bell.

On the fifth day Spock was granted his hearing. Leo had been discharged from the infirmary and gave his account of Spock's visit on the day in question. No witnesses came forward to testify against Spock, and since his memory scan corresponded perfectly with his official statement, Smythe had no choice but to drop the investigation and restore all of Spock's former privileges.

That evening Spock lay on the bunk below Leo and pored over the backlog of coms that had been withheld from him. He had made printouts of the texts so he could read and reread the messages at his leisure.

Aaron Pascal spoke of his disappointment over Kirk's lack of interest in the Transmigrator technology. He was considering the possibility of using Spock as an alternate subject, but his inquiries regarding a medical release had met with a great deal of resistance. There were strict regulations governing the health and safety of Starfleet prisoners; they were not customarily handed over for medical experiments.

Lauren had learned of the missing Airbike and expressed worry over the way Warden Smythe was handling the incident. She included a jarring note about Simon. The boy had withdrawn from his baseball team rather than answer questions regarding his involvement in a fight. Lauren had very little else to say about it, but Spock knew she was as troubled as him about their son's behavior. Simon was at an age when he sorely needed a father's guidance, but now there was no one to supply it. One poor choice on Spock's part was all it had taken—one deadly moment of unbridled emotion—and now he could only read about the poor choices his son was making, and offer advice to the boy in messages that Simon never answered.

It angered Spock. At times the frustrations of imprisonment angered him so much that he found himself starting to place blame—on Vito Ronaldi, on Warden Cho, and even on Jim Kirk for being too self-absorbed to spare Simon even a small morsel of attention. Wasn't it enough that Lauren had to deal with the day-to-day problems of raising three children on her own, one of whom was chronically ill? Now there was also Jim to occupy her—as thoughtless and self-centered as any child. Spock sent Jim an occasional com, but the bitter responses were clearly written under the influence of alcohol.

Spock put the letters aside. Using a Vulcan technique, he closed his eyes and let the day's buildup of tension slip away, layer by layer.

A series of sharp, popping sounds disturbed him. Looking up from his bunk, he found Art Jukko outside the cell, spitting against the force field. The wiry, balding inmate met Spock's eyes and sneered.

"So big shot, how'd you like the toilet brigade?"

Leo jumped down from the top bunk and confronted Jukko. "How'd you like your face smashed, maggot?"

Jukko's pale eyes narrowed. "I guess you haven't learned much of anything, have you, Kessler? Go on, kiss up to your Vulcan boyfriend—while you still can."

A guard appeared in the corridor and moved Jukko along. Cursing softly, Leo activated the vid-screen and tuned in a popular Space drama. There would be no further meditation until night descended over the prison.

oooo

Spock spent his next day of furlough with Leo, well away from the cellblock. The pain from the devil mites was still fresh in Kessler's mind and the human could think of little else but revenge.

"I'm going to get that greasy little slug if it's the last thing I do," he repeated, kicking at the soft dirt of the riverside trail.

Spock's silence on the subject annoyed him. Stopping in his tracks, Leo snapped, "How can you be so calm? Jukka framed you with that Airbike and laughed about it—and you can bet he's still laughing about that beating they gave you on Luna. Wouldn't you like to get even?"

It was a warm, pleasant day. Spock did not wish to be drawn into an argument.

Leo made an impatient noise. "You're next, you know—they're all saying it. Have you ever felt the sting of a devil mite? Help me, Spock. Help me get him now, and we can both sleep a little easier."

Spock looked at his determined friend. "What do you have in mind?"

Leo turned toward the river—a brief glance only, but quite sufficient to convey his meaning.

 _"_ _No,"_ Spock said emphatically.

"Accidents happen. Who would know the difference?"

"I have a family to consider," Spock told him, wondering why had he raised that particular issue rather than the deeper, moral question of murder. The answer was quite simple. He, too, wished Arthur Jukka was gone. "Leo, you have a chance at parole. Surely you are not seriously giving thought to—"

Leo looked furious. "Oh, so killing's only okay if it's your idea, is that it? Man, sometimes you're such a hypocritical ass!"

Spock was taken aback, but he had no words with which to defend himself. It was true, on Luna he _had_ enjoyed his own revenge. He had injured a man so badly that he later died.

"Leo…" he said.

Kessler turned from him and stalked down the path.

It was a while before Spock moved on. Leo's reproach echoed in his mind as he limped slowly along the trail. Was that how his friend saw him? As a murderer? Was that how everyone saw him now? Since his conviction, he had governed his thoughts carefully. He seldom reflected on the life that had once been his, or on the career issues that awaited him upon his eventual release. Such thoughts were simply too painful.

Now, for the first time, he permitted himself to think beyond the pleasant reunion with his family. What would life hold for a court-martialed officer, for a convicted killer? What work might he do? Who would ever consider hiring him?

Spock stayed in the woods all day. The shadows were lengthening when a faint, distant cry roused him from his pensive mood. He stopped and listened. It came again—not a bird call, but a distinctly human sound. A sound of anguish.

Leaving the trail, he took off through the trees. The cries grew louder and more distinct.

"Help me!" called the desperate male voice. "Please, someone—help!"

"Where are you?" Spock shouted.

"Here! Over here!" came the immediate response. "Hurry up! Hurry!"

In an awkward run, Spock covered the remaining distance and burst into a small clearing by the riverbank. He felt his shoes sinking into spongy ground and came to an abrupt halt. Nearby, someone let out a curse. Spock looked around. At first glance the area seemed deserted. Then he saw it—a human head protruding from a quagmire, and the head belonged to Arthur Jukka.

Jukka's pale, panicked eyes pleaded with him as Spock took in all the implications of the scene. There was no need to ask Jukka what he was doing here. A sizeable devil mite nest was nearby, along with a jar for collecting them.

"How very ironic," Spock said.

Jukka struggled to free himself and his body slipped a little deeper into the muck. It was up to his chin now.

 _Quicksand._ There was lots of it on Vulcan, especially by the Lesser Sea and the hot springs at Ar-Bekani Preserve. At the age of seven, all Vulcan boys routinely navigated such hazards during their kahs-wan trial.

"For godsake, get me out of here!" Jukka cried.

"Do you not mean…for _your_ sake?" Spock asked levelly. Feeling the mire suck at his shoes, he backed a couple of steps, onto firmer ground.

Jukka's eyes bulged with terror. "No! Don't leave me here!"

It seemed a particularly horrible way to die, inching below the surface, slowly suffocating in the thick, wet sand. A most fitting death for someone like Arthur Jukka.

"You were gathering mites," Spock observed. "Mites that were intended for me."

"No!" Jukka denied. "No, I swear it—just get me out of here!"

Spock gazed without sympathy upon the trapped convict. "You are lying. You are afraid to tell me the truth because you think I will leave you to die. But there are those who say you deserve death for what you and your friend Ronaldi did to me—and to others."

"It was wrong!" Jukka confessed. "We were wrong! Dammit, don't let me die—" His mouth dipped below the surface and came back up, choking.

"Be still," Spock advised him, "or you will go completely under."

Jukka began to weep loudly. "I can't breathe! Oh-you-freaking-son-of-a-bitch, what do you want from me?"

The question struck Spock hard. What _did_ he want from Jukka? An admission of guilt? He had already received that. An apology? Mere words could not take the sting out of wounds this deep. What then? What did he want from the man?

With chilling abruptness, the pit swallowed Jukka. Now only his eyes remained in view—wide open, rolling with mute panic.

Something inside Spock stirred, and he set in motion, ripping low branches from a nearby tree, tossing them on the wet sand. When the raft was sufficiently solid, he laid himself flat on it and edged out far enough to reach Jukka's head. Only the wispy hair at his crown still showed. Reaching down into the muck, Spock grasped Jukka by the collar and strained hard against the deadly suction.

Jukka's clogged mouth broke the surface; he spit and sputtered and gasped for air.

Bit by bit Spock muscled the convict's body up onto the raft, then dragged him over to solid ground, where Jukka lay, utterly spent by his ordeal. Spock sank down with his back to a tree and likewise rested.

After a time Jukka turned to look at Spock, and the Vulcan no longer wondered what it was that he had wanted from the man. He saw it clearly now, mingled with the tearful gratitude shining from Jukka's eyes—those eyes that had so often mocked him, those same eyes that had just stared death in the face.

It was respect.

"You're probably wondering why the hell you saved me," Jukka said. "You're decent, that's why. You're not really a killer. You don't belong here like the rest of us."

Spock got to his feet, intending to go wash at the river's edge. Heading off, he said, "A man died because of me, and that does indeed make me a killer."

Jukka's voice called to him. "But you didn't really kill Ronaldi!"

Spock had heard that tired argument before, but he had not expected it from Jukko. Stopping, he looked back at the mud-encrusted inmate who had been his enemy for so long. "Ronaldi died as a result of injuries I—"

"No," Jukka cut him off. "Ronaldi died of medical neglect."

Spock had heard that claim as well. His own attorney had used it during the court-martial, without success.

Jukka pulled himself to a sitting position. A beam of waning light struck his filthy rat-like face. "You don't get it. Ronaldi got better and he was released from the infirmary. About a week later he complained of a bellyache, but Cho wouldn't do anything. Ronaldi died that night in our cell because the warden denied him treatment. I know—I was _there."_

"You…were there," Spock repeated numbly. _An eyewitness. Yet he had not come forward._

Jukka looked as if he thought Spock might hurl him back into the quicksand. "Yeah—I know. It's not the first time I screwed you over, but it's gonna be different now. You saved my life. I'm gonna make it right, I swear…"

Spock went over to the convict, reached down, and hauled him up by the front of his jumpsuit. Looking into his eyes, he asked, "Are you telling me the truth?"

Jukka blinked. He swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah, the truth. Just don't get riled. I'm yours, understand? You want a piece of me? Go ahead, I got it coming. Anything you want, anything at all…"

A bitter taste rose in the back of Spock's throat. He let Jukka drop, and as he wiped the feeling of him off his hands, the full realization struck. If this new evidence proved valid, he did _not_ belong here. He was _not_ directly responsible for Vito Ronaldi's death. _And he would go free…_

oooo

Still holding a dust cloth, Lauren lowered herself into Spock's chair. The freshly polished surface of his desk shone. She had cleaned every inch of the study. She had waited a long time for this, and she wanted everything to be perfect for tomorrow's homecoming. Of course, if Spock were here now, he would warn her against such unrealistic expectations. But there was no changing the wishful nature of the human heart.

The hall door nudged open and Simon's curly head appeared. "You wanted to see me, Mom?"

"Yes, Simon. Come on in."

He entered warily, his eyes darting around the study as if he expected some unpleasant surprise to leap out at him. His gaze lit on a captain's dress uniform hanging in an open closet. He froze.

"What are you going to do with _that_?" he questioned. "Throw it away?"

"No," Lauren said carefully. "Your father's uniforms will stay put, for now."

"Why? He won't need them. He got a dishonorable discharge. He got kicked out of Starfleet forever."

Her stomach tightened. How strange it seemed. This should have been a happy occasion, but she had a queasy feeling that no matter how gently she divulged the good news, Simon would react negatively. So she decide to say it outright.

"Simon, your father is on his way home. He'll be here tomorrow."

His jaw dropped. "What do you mean? His sentence isn't up. They don't just let people walk out of prison…" He stopped suddenly, his eyes opening wide with alarm. "He's escaped again, hasn't he? Mom, don't run off with him like you did before! _Please_ don't!"

Lauren sighed and shook her head. "No, honey, he didn't escape. It's all perfectly legal. You see," she said patiently, "one of the other prisoners came forward with new evidence. That man your father fought only died because he didn't get the medical care he needed. The warden at Luna deliberately planned it that way. Cho was angry with your father and wanted him to take the blame."

Simon blinked hard against the tears threatening him.

"Come here," she said, but as she rose from the chair, he backed away from her. "Simon, the story's going out on all the news services. Everyone will know the truth about what happened. This past year has been rough, but now it's over."

"No, it isn't!" he cried. "Nothing's ever going to be the same!"

Lauren took a deep breath and nodded. "That's true—some things _won't_ be the same. Your father might never wear that uniform again—he might never go back to Starfleet. But that's not important. What matters is that he's coming home to us."

Wordlessly he turned on his heel and ran out of the room.

oooo

Liberty. After more than a year in confinement, the word itself seemed precious. How good it felt to control his own destiny, schedule his own time, and come and go as he pleased. Suddenly it was a simple matter to pass through doors, and if he chose he could also close them—solid doors, impervious to prying eyes, guardians of a cherished privacy he had long been denied.

Spock came to an elevator and took pleasure in stepping aboard, unfettered and alone. The lift reached Jim Kirk's floor. The doors sprang open. He exited and walked along the hall at his own pace. Everything looked different from the way he last saw it. During his absence, the décor had been updated with fresh paint and new red carpeting.

He paused outside Kirk's apartment to adjust his civilian suit; after months of prison coveralls, ordinary clothes felt unfamiliar. And there was the matter of his heart pounding wildly, but he had no time to deal with that now. Resolutely reaching out, he pressed the door chime.

T'Beth appeared, threw her arms around him, and pulled him inside. There in the entryway she held him at arm's length while her dancing eyes took in every detail of his appearance.

"Just look at you!" she exclaimed. "I should have known you'd figure some way to get out of there!"

Spock gazed down at his daughter, one eyebrow raised. "If getting out depended solely on my figuring, I would still be repairing tractors on Romar."

Her hazel eyes twinkled. "I was only joking and you know it. Your release is an answer to prayer."

"And so begins the sermonette of the day," spoke a voice from across the room.

Spock turned and found a wheelchair moving toward him, carrying a dissipated shadow of a man. Only the eyes were the same—Jim's eyes, aglow with liquor but more alive, he suspected, than anyone had seen them in a long while. Concealing his dismay, he looked upon the ruin of his friend and warmly said, "Jim…it is good to see you."

Kirk gripped his wheel guides and edged nearer. "Spock, who are you kidding? We both know I look like hell."

"You look as if you have been drinking," Spock said frankly.

Kirk struggled with himself, then shrugged. "I've been making a lot of toasts lately—to distant hopes and absent friends."

T'Beth walked up behind Kirk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Things are going to be different now that Father's back. He'll show you that Aaron Pascal can be trusted. You'll be up on your feet in no time."

Kirk's expression darkened. "Aaron Pascal is nothing but a Starfleet puppet."

Spock met the pain and apology in his daughter's eyes, then turned his attention back on Kirk. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "Jim. I, too, have my reservations about Starfleet, but I have known Commander Pascal for sixteen years and I assure you that he is nobody's puppet."

"Then you're blind!" Kirk snapped. "There's only one reason Starfleet would want me anywhere near that Transmigrator—to get rid of me once and for all."

Spock repressed a sigh. This was not his first experience of Kirk's paranoia. He had observed the tendency in Kirk's coms, but meeting it head-on was even more disturbing. At last he said, "There is no use arguing if you are not inclined to approach the situation rationally. Perhaps another time when you are more…clear-headed."

Kirk's face reddened with anger. "You think I'm crazy!"

"I think you're intoxicated," Spock said matter-of-factly.

Kirk's chest began to heave with pent emotion. T'Beth bent over him and pleaded, "Come on, Jim, don't make a scene."

Kirk gave her a rude shove. "Get your hands off me! This is my apartment—not yours—and I'll do whatever I damn well please!"

Spock inwardly flinched at the acid tone. He saw tears brimming in his daughter's eyes and knew that if he did not go now, Kirk would very likely receive a well-worded piece of his Vulcan mind.

"Jim, I must leave," he said in farewell. "I came here directly from the spaceport and Lauren is awaiting me at home." He was not expecting any gratitude for the unusual arrangement that put Kirk's needs ahead of his own wife and children. This was how Lauren had wanted it. Jim first, then a private reunion at home, away from the intrusive reporters who had descended upon him when he arrived.

Kirk's mouth twisted. "Yes, that's right, go ahead—run on home to your little family."

The spiteful words pained Spock—an unavoidable consequence of permitting himself to experience a fuller range of emotion. He was casting about for some way to deal with his former captain's childishness when T'Beth swung around and confronted Kirk.

"How dare you ridicule my father! You had your chance for a family, but you wanted a starship instead! You had exactly what you wanted—and you could still have it if you weren't such a stubborn jackass!"

A stricken look crossed Kirk's face. He abruptly pivoted his chair and wheeled himself down the hallway to his bedroom. The door slid shut behind him.

Spock turned to his spirited daughter and found tears on her face. "T'Beth, do you honestly think that helped?"

Her voice shook as she said, "Sometimes I think he's beyond help."

He could not deny that possibility, and the fact saddened him. "Perhaps you should come home with me. If you give Jim more time to himself, he may learn to appreciate your company."

She managed a weak smile. Glancing toward Kirk's bedroom, she said, "Appreciation. That would be nice for a change."

As they left together, Spock experienced an inner tug beckoning him back, but he set himself against it and went on. Before he returned to see Jim, he would give the situation much thought. For now, he was going home.

oooo

Lauren knew it was one of those rare moments that would remain sharply preserved in her memory for as long as she lived. The way the sunlight slanted in through the open door, streaking the carpet. The auburn glints it created in Spock's dark, well-trimmed hair. The understated gladness in his eyes as he entered the house and took in every familiar detail of the living room and then came to rest on her.

She scarcely saw T'Beth standing beside him. With a racing heart she moved forward, offering her paired fingers to her free, exonerated husband. She had wanted to greet Spock like a Vulcan spouse, but as his fingers met hers, bringing with them a warm rush of welcome, her emotions got the better of her. All at once she was embracing him and kissing him and shedding tears for the pain that was finally behind them.

When it was over he gazed fondly into her damp eyes and said, "You have been cooking."

The house smelled like a restaurant. She nodded. "All your favorite foods. Enough for a Vulcan army."

One eyebrow rose in appreciation. With a "later for you" look, he turned his attention on the children. James and Teresa peeked at him from behind a big chair in the corner.

"Don't be bashful," Lauren told them, but they were bound to be hesitant after such a long separation from their father. "Come on," she gently urged, "come and say 'welcome home' to your daddy."

T'Beth went over and pried the twins out of their hiding place. The children clung to her hands as she brought them before their father. It must have seemed strange to them, seeing Spock in person rather than a video image in a subspace com.

Spock went down on one knee and studied their timid faces. Gently he said, "There is nothing to fear."

Cautiously Teresa touched his hand. A moment later she was in his arms, hugging his neck tightly.

T'Beth nudged James a little closer and said, "He's looking more like you than ever, don't you think?"

Spock shifted Teresa to one side and they studied her twin brother together. James had only recently completed another hospital stay. He was pathetically thin and so tired-looking that his Vulcanoid ears made him seem like a sad little elf. But as his father reached out to him, he smiled.

"James, you have grown," Spock told the boy.

James beamed as proudly as if he had shot up a whole foot instead of a measly inch. Then he, too, was hugging his father.

Only one thing was missing from the scene. Lauren turned around and looked for Simon. She found him high up on the stairs, frowning down at the living room from a safe distance. When she beckoned to him, he jumped up and disappeared.

oooo

At dinner, Spock was tempted to eat too much. He could not seem to get his fill of the wonderful food Lauren had prepared for him, but the hunger was not merely physical. There was a place inside him that had gone empty for too long, a place that only his family could satisfy.

It was good to be home, but a year had been stolen from his life, his career shattered, and his reputation in ruins. And as a direct result dinner came and went with no sign that his eldest son was in the house. Not even two active three-year-olds could mask the absence of Simon's music and boyish chatter. First T'Beth went upstairs and failed to coax the boy out of his room, then Lauren tried with no better result. They came back embarrassed and apologetic, but the twins—like small children everywhere—had no qualms about voicing their personal opinions.

On the sofa, Teresa nestled close to Spock while James took the other side. She said, "Don't worry about Simon. He's just a bwat."

"A _silly_ bwat," James agreed with a decisive nod. His eyelids drooped. Resting his head on Spock's leg, he began to cough—a sure sign that he was growing weary.

Spock stroked his son's slightly jaundiced cheek. "You should not be too hard on your brother. This past year has been difficult for him." _And he clearly blames me for that._

James closed his eyes contentedly. Bending over him, Teresa kissed her brother's upswept ear and said, "You better go to bed, Jamie."

"It's time both of you were in bed," Lauren announced.

She took the twins upstairs and T'Beth accompanied her. Alone, Spock listened to the wind tossing leaves over the front porch, then stood and walked over to the painting by Chagall that hung near the staircase. "The Expulsion from Paradise" vividly portrayed Adam and Eve's anguished confrontation with their sin. They could not bear the sight of it. Faces averted, they were running away.

Gazing at it, Spock felt as if he, too, had been running. All day he had been averting his face from the inevitable confrontation with his eldest son. But he could not put it off any longer. Inwardly bracing, he went up to Simon's bedroom, knocked lightly, and let himself inside.

He caught a glimpse of Simon's face before the boy turned back to the window where he was sitting, perched on the ledge. Simon crossed his arms stiffly and stared out at the gusty night.

Spock studied him. Simon has grown a great deal in the past year. The violin would seem smaller in his hands, but even as a young child he had known just where to put his fingers, just where to place the bow.

"Why haven't you come downstairs?" Spock asked.

"Why haven't you come _up_ stairs," Simon countered without looking at him.

"You told your mother and T'Beth that you wanted to be alone."

Simon was silent for a moment. Then suddenly he turned, his blue eyes glowering. "I was doing just fine without you. We all were."

If the words were intended to cut deeply, they did. Spock found his Vulcan control faltering as he struggled with the very human emotions of hurt and anger. Even Art Jukka had looked upon him with more respect than this. His own son considered him so embarrassing that he was no longer welcome in the boy's life.

Simon turn back to the window.

As Spock stood thinking, an ancient Vulcan proverb came to him. _A good father does not befriend his children; he parents them._ He had clung to that wisdom often during T'Beth's turbulent years, and once more he took strength from it.

"Look at me," he said firmly.

Simon reacted to the authoritarian tone and faced him, but the boy's expression was as sulky as ever.

Spock told him, "I am glad to hear that you fared well in my absence. As for myself, I found our separation…quite difficult. Not a day went by that I did not regret the unfortunate circumstances that kept us apart. Now that I am back, I will not tolerate the petulant sort of behavior you displayed today. No matter has happened, Simon, we are still a family. Remember that."

Simon looked as if he would rather not remember, but he held his tongue, and for that Spock was grateful. Today of all days, he did not want to mete out punishment.

Wordlessly he left Simon and walked down the hall to his own bedroom. In the darkness he lit his attunement lamp, and the small flame sent shadows flickering over the walls. He went to his meditation stool and stood looking at it. How long had it been since he was able to meditate in such privacy? He was about to sit when Lauren came in, but he did not mind the interruption.

Lauren stayed near the door. "I heard you come out of Simon's room. You okay?"

"Yes," he answered.

"And Simon?"

He hesitated. "I suspect he will rejoin the family in the morning."

"And if he doesn't?"

"I will deal with it then. Tonight I would rather speak of other things." And he held out his hand to her.

Lauren smiled at him. The flame shone softly on her face and made her eyes look very warm and inviting.

"Agreed," she said low, and came over to him.

Quietly in the shadows, their hands met.

oooOOooo


End file.
